For Honor
by TinkerBella7
Summary: This is a post ep tag for the season finale Musketeers Don't Die Easily. Bascially some D'Artagnan angst and Whump with Athos angst and brotherhood, and honor thrown in for good measure.


They rode away from the Palace, making their way back to the Garrison at the end of what had been a very long and weary week. Each of them lost in their own thoughts, all of them feeling both weary and yet perhaps a bit exhilarated. They had achieved much in the past week, but the journey to the end had been taxing on them all.

As they dismounted and handed the horses over to the stable boy, Porthos rounded on his fellow Musketeers with a grin. "Let's go celebrate!" he beseeched them, his voice rumbling with enthusiasm.

Aramis narrowed his gaze at him. "Celebrate what, exactly?"

"Take your pick," Porthos countered, before ticking off a list of options on his fingers. "We can celebrate the Royal Heir to be. Our success in tricking the Cardinal into revealing his assassination attempt on the Queen. Or how about driving Milady out of Paris for good? Better yet, all the above."

"I'm in," Aramis conceded. "Just give me a moment to freshen up."

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "Should we bet on how many ladies vie for your affections tonight?"

Aramis chuckled. "Depends on what you have to bet, since I know you have little in the way of coin."

"We'll figure it out." Porthos turned to the others. "Athos, you coming?"

"Perhaps I'll join you later," Athos replied. His head was filled with chaos at the moment and, as much as he wanted a drink, he thought some quiet solitude would be in his best interests right now.

Porthos shrugged, accepting his decline. "Fair enough." He watched Athos exit the Garrison before lifting a hand to ruffle D'Artagnan's hair, expecting a smack and a glare which was the boy's usual response that action.

Instead, the youngest of the Musketeers just shook his head. "Another time perhaps," he said softly. "I bid you all goodnight." And with that he headed for his room.

"What's got him so morose?" Porthos queried, turning to Aramis.

"He's heartbroken," Aramis replied, watching as D'Artagnan strode away from them. "He got his lady love back only to lose her again, all in the matter of a few moments. It's going to take time for him to heal."

Porthos sighed. "Yeah, it can't be easy. I miss Alice a lot and that was nothing but a bit of fun and good times between us. But D'Artagnan is young and pretty, he'll find someone else soon enough."

It was Aramis' turn to sigh. "True love is complicated, my friend. You saw them together. He can't just walk away from the other half of his heart." Aramis knew just how painful it was to love someone body, heart and soul only to realize it wasn't to be. It left a man feeling empty inside. The kind of empty than can never truly be filled by any other. But he made a vow to set aside his own aching heart and forced a smile as he challenged his friend. "I dare you to call D'Artagnan pretty to his face."

"I need a drink," Porthos declared, giving Aramis a shove. "Go do what you need to do and meet me at the Bawdy Lady. First bottle of wine is on me." He had just enough coin for one bottle of the cheap stuff, but he intended to win enough for several bottles of the good stuff before the night was through.

"See you there soon," Aramis promised, as he strode off.

Leaving Porthos to make his way to the Tavern, happily whistling a dirty ditty.

D'Artagnan closed the door to his room behind him, suddenly feeling at a loss. He untied his blue cape, neatly folding it before laying it, carefully, in the trunk at the foot of his bed. He felt restless despite being weary and too wound up to simply lie down and sleep, even though he knew he needed the rest. The burning ache in his ribs wouldn't have allowed him to sleep anyway.

He didn't want company, yet he didn't want to stay in his room alone with his thoughts. Alone with the memories of Constance swirling in his head and making his heart ache. A walk might be just the thing. He could work off the edge of restlessness and maybe he'd finally be able to get a good night's sleep. Decision made, D'Artagnan headed out the door and strode out of the Garrison, where he spent the next hour simply wandering the streets.

So lost in thought was he, that D'Artagnan never noticed the figure that shadowed his every step.

Perhaps had he been paying attention he wouldn't have wandered down a deserted alley way, only to be confronted by three men with sticks and daggers. Resisting the urge to sigh, D'Artagnan drew his sword. But before he made a move to engage, he tapped his Pauldron. "You do realize I'm a Musketeer, right? Because if you think to rob me for money...I have none."

"I'll take your boots then," the man in the middle snarled, before launching himself at D'Artagnan, swinging a heavy club-like stick at his head.

"Really?" D'Artagnan drawled, before easily side-stepping the oaf and kicking him on the back-side as he passed by him. The man fell face first into the mud. Turning to face the other two, D'Artagnan gestured for them to approach. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Moving as a unit, both men attacked D'Artagnan, the one on the right nearly cutting him with his dagger as D'Artagnan swiveled to ward off the short sword the man on the left tried to slash him with. It felt almost like child's play as D'Artagnan swiftly disarmed them both. He stepped on the chest of the biggest one, grinding into him until the man winced in pain. "Stay down or I'll make sure you never get up again. Understand?"

The man nodded as best he could, not moving a muscle as D'Artagnan stepped off him and turned away.

Sliding his still clean sword back into its sheath, D'Artagnan made his way out of the alley and back onto the open street. He hadn't really put much effort into taking those men down, but the actions had put more stress on his already aching and exhausted body, so his gait was a bit uneven as he pressed a hand to his ribs. He hissed in pain and realized he was bleeding again, he could feel the wetness against his skin, soaking into his shirt.

Swallowing a sigh of frustration, D'Artagnan turned around to make his way back to the Garrison, only to find himself stumbling against a nearby wall. He leaned against it, head down, trying to ease both the pain and dizziness he was feeling.

"D'Artagnan?"

At the sound of his name he whirled around and was surprised to see Athos standing there, eyeing him with concern. He opened his mouth to ask what his friend was doing there, but the only sound that came out was a gasp of pain.

Athos moved to D'Artagnan's side. "What's wrong? Did those men hurt you?"

"You saw them?" D'Artagnan was surprised.

"I would have stepped in but you appeared to have it under control." Athos looked amused, but at the same time he was running his hands over D'Artagnan, searching for injuries. He found what he was looking for when he brushed the young man's left side. The place where he'd shot him less than a week ago.

D'Artagnan stepped back, out of reach of Athos' probing fingers. "I'm fine. Those fools never touched me."

Athos moved with him, gripping D'Artagnan by the shoulder when his knees suddenly buckled. "I should have insisted that Aramis check your wound. You're a damn, stubborn, fool."

"Don't be ridiculous, Athos!" D'Artagnan snapped, feeling angry because he could hear the guilt in the other man's voice. He did not want to be the cause of any more suffering. "I'm perfectly fine, just tired."

"Have you slept since this whole thing started?" Athos queried. He asked because he knew how little sleep he, himself, had gotten. None of them had been able to rest well, other than Porthos. The man could sleep standing up if need be.

D'Artagnan didn't respond, he just shrugged Athos hands off and made to continue on his way. He didn't want to lie so it was better to be silent. Only Athos caught up to him and, keeping step and watching him closely. It made D'Artagnan uncomfortable being the object of such intensity so he stopped walking and faced the other man. "I know you had plans to meet with Aramis and Porthos."

Athos shrugged. "They can drink without me." He knew what D'Artagnan was trying to do but he wasn't going to let the boy out of his sight. And his intentions weren't entirely selfless. Athos had discovered that being in D'Artagnan's presence often brought him a sense of comfort, and he sought that comfort on this night.

"I don't need a keeper," D'Artagnan insisted, wishing he could simply will Athos away. Most times he enjoyed the other mans company, even when Athos was sullen and moody. But right now he wanted to hide in his room, licking his wounds in private. Wounds that were both visible and hidden.

"How about a friend?" Athos countered, without hesitation.

And those words froze D'Artagnan in his tracks. He considered Athos his best friend, but he'd never expected him to offer his friendship in such a manner. "I could always use a friend," D'Artagnan spoke softly, uncertainly. What he wanted and what he needed were at war with each other. "But I would be terrible company tonight," he confessed.

Athos smiled. "I'll take my chances. Come, we'll go to my rooms. They're nearby." Without waiting for consent, he took D'Artagnan by the arm, guiding him forward.

They made their way in companionable silence, D'Artagnan content to let Athos take the lead. It was as natural as breathing to follow him, be it onto a battlefield or down a simple Paris street. He was surprised to realize just how close by Athos' rooms were, for he had lost track of his surroundings, and D'Artagnan felt a sense of relief. His body was turning on him, pain and exhaustion making his footsteps heavy and uncoordinated. In fact he stumbled through the doorway and only Athos' hand on his arm kept him from falling.

"Come lay down," Athos stated, guiding him over to the bed and making him sit. He shushed the protests the boy started to make, carefully removing weapons, belt and jacket before easing D'Artagnan back against the pillows.

"Forgive me," D'Artagnan mumbled.

Athos looked amused. "For what?"

D'Artagnan gestured to himself. "For being such a bother."

"You are many things, D'Artagnan. Arrogant, hot-headed, stubborn, brilliant, exasperating at times...but never a bother."

"You are mocking me." He believed that to be true, and yet D'Artagnan found that he was not bothered by it in the least.

Athos patted his shoulder. "I assure you I am not." He moved to a side table, pouring water into a basin and grabbing some rags before moving to sit on the side of the bed. He reached for the hem of D'Artagnan's shirt and tugged it up gently. The left side was stained red and Athos winced to see the wound on his ribs bleeding sluggishly. "I should bring Aramis to check on you," he said softly.

D'Artagnan winced as Athos wiped away the blood, and yet he felt strangely detached from his body in this moment. "I'm fine, Athos," he insisted. "Just...tired."

"You can rest here then." Athos continued at his task. Once the wound was cleaned he pressed a wad of cloth against it, holding firm so that it would stop bleeding completely. He studied D'Artagnan, seeing the dark circles beneath the dark eyes. Seeing the sadness where passion and excitement once blazed. He wondered how to help the boy. He understood the sadness, for D'Artagnan had lost since coming to Paris. His father, his home and the woman he loved. Losing Constance not once, but twice, had nearly broken the boy.

"I asked Milday DeWinter about the two of you," D'Artagnan blurted out, eyes locked on the tiles overhead. He had been wanting to talk to Athos about this, because he felt the other man needed to know. D'Artagnan felt uncomfortable being privy to such information about Athos' private life.

Athos froze at D'Artagnan's words, pressing hard against the boy's side causing him to gasp in pain. "Apologies," he whispered, easing back and checking to make sure he did not do any further damage. The wound was still bleeding, and Athos hoped it would not need to be restitched.

D'Artagnan pushed his hand away. "Leave it be, I'm fine," he stated yet again, as if saying it enough times would make it so. He pushed himself up against the pillows, ignoring the pain that burned in his side. "She told me about Thomas."

"What did she say?" Athos found himself needing to know.

"She said he wanted her and that he tried to force her, threatening her because he knew the truth about where she came from." D'Artagnan could not look at Athos as he spoke. He did not see the other man's face to know that his words cut like a knife. "She said that Thomas was a threat to your happiness together."

Athos rose from the bed and paced the room, losing himself in the memories he had tried so hard to forget. His wife had told D'Artagnan the same story she had tried to tell him, and a part of Athos wondered if there was any truth in it, but the stronger part of him knew that she was a liar and a murderer and that nothing would never change that fact. She had lied to Athos from the moment they had met, and those lies had been the cause of his brother's death.

Pulling himself together, Athos returned to the bed where D'Artagnan lay watching him with dark and worried eyes. "Thank you for telling me. I trust you to keep it in confidence."

"Of course I will," D'Artagnan promised, without hesitation. He made to shift off the bed, wincing at the movement and turning pale.

"What are you doing?" Athos demanded, pressing him back against the pillows. "You're still bleeding, you fool! You need to lie still and rest. And when was the last time you ate? Porthos is threatening to make you eat an entire sheep in one sitting to fatten you up."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but ended up laughing, which made his side burn. He hunched over, breathing carefully through the rush of pain before relaxing back again. "Don't...don't make me laugh," he beseeched.

Athos smoothed a lock of dark hair off of the boy's damp forehead. "He's very serious, and I just may help him," he warned. "I know you've been through much in this past week alone, but you need to take better care of yourself." He had been worried about D'Artagnan since the start of this escapade. The boy hadn't hesitated to agree to the plan, despite the risk to himself. Athos had been both proud and terrified, but now he found himself wanting to lock D'Artagnan in a room so that he would be safe and sound for once.

"I take care of myself just fine," D'Artagnan protested, but he lost credibility when he crossed his arms over his chest and pouted at Athos.

"You haven't an ounce of self-preservation in you," Athos countered, pushing D'Artagnan's arms down so he could check on his wound again. It pained him to see the injury, for it was a reminder of the fact he had been the one to cause it. When he'd learned he'd hit the boy in the side and not the arm, Athos had felt devastated. Being confronted with his wife in that moment, and having drunk more than he really should have, Athos had felt overwhelmed. Playing his role in their scheme had been difficult and D'Artagnan had come far to close to paying the ultimate price.

D'Artagnan could see the sadness on Athos' face and could guess at the cause. "Stop feeling guilty," he demanded. "I'm perfectly fine."

Athos snorted. "You call a bloody bullet wound fine? I beg a difference of opinion."

"We did what we set out to do," D'Artagnan reminded him. "We revealed the Cardinal's guilt and saved an innocent man. Your wife is finally gone for good, the Queen is safe and soon to have the Royal Heir. Life is good."

"Is it?" Athos figured it was time to turn the tables, so to speak. "What of you and Constance?"

D'Artagnan felt a pain in his chest at her name. He had never known a woman like her. He had never known the power of love for a woman until he'd met Constance. But she was his to love and she never would be. "She is with her husband where she belongs," D'Artagnan whispered. He pushed at Athos, wanting to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It was time to leave.

But Athos would not be moved. He placed a firm hand on D'Artagnan's chest, keeping him in place. "You cannot run from the pain," he said quietly. "It becomes a part of you, D'Artagnan. Much like losing your Father and your home, it will make you stronger in the end. Never forget that."

"Sometimes I wish I could forget everything." The words came out before he could stop them and D'Artagnan wished he could take them back. Instead he looked at Athos, waiting for his reply.

"Why do you think I drink?" Athos held D'Artagnan's gaze, letting him see the truth in his eyes. "But it never works, despite my repeated attempts to make it so. You're stronger than I am, D'Artagnan. In every way."

Feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion settle over him, D'Artagnan finally let himself relax against the pillows. He wished to be even half the man he believed Athos to be, someday. "Why did you become a Musketeer?" He had wanted to ask that question for a long time but had lacked the courage.

Athos reached for a blanket and after removing D'Artagnan's boots, he spread it over the boy. It wouldn't be long before D'Artagnan was asleep. Grabbing a chair, Athos placed it by the bed and settled in before replying. "I was bored."

"That's it?" D'Artagnan had expected something far more profound.

"More or less," Athos admitted. "After my brother died, I felt lost. I needed something to believe in. What better cause than to fight for France, for the King and for Justice?"

D'Artagnan smiled, even as his eyelids drifted closed. "And for honor?" he prompted, bringing them back full-circle to just a few hours ago.

Athos ruffled D'Artagnan's hair, grinning when the boy made a half-hearted attempt to slap his hand away. "And for honor," he confirmed. "Now sleep," he beseeched him. "I will watch over you."

"We'll watch over him together," Porthos announced, making a loud and boisterous entrance with Aramis in his wake. "We brought food and wine." He held up bread and cheese and two bottles.

"How are you feeling, D'Artagnan?" Aramis queried, moving to the bed and reaching for the blanket. He didn't ask permission but simply pulled up the boy's shirt and checked the wound. "Could use a stitch or two," he offered.

D'Artagnan blinked at him, sleepily. "It will heal just fine." He pushed himself into a sitting position and held out one hand to Porthos. "Wine please," he demanded. He was tired but he could sleep later. For now he wanted to spend time with his friends.

Porthos chuckled and slapped a bottle into his hand. "A boy after my own heart!" he exclaimed.

"Stop calling me boy," D'Artagnan groused, before taking a swig of the wine. He figured he'd claim this bottle for himself, only to find it pulled out of his hand by Athos. "Hey!"

"You need food first," the older Musketeer insisted, snagging a hunk of bread and handing it to D'Artagnan. He saw the smile on the young Gascon's face as he took a bite and thought perhaps this would be the best medicine for them both. Being surrounded by their friends. Holding up the bottle Athos proclaimed, "A toast, to honor and friendship."

And four voices rang out -

"All for one...and one for all."

THE END


End file.
